


I Came To You

by 0pposing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Doesn't Exist, Anal Sex, Cliffhangers, Creepy Moriarty, Depressed John, Depressed Sherlock, Depressing, Drug Abuse, Eventual Sex, Face Slapping, First Kiss, First Time, John Commits Suicide, Johnlock Fluff, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Public Blow Jobs, Public Display of Affection, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovered Memories, Romance, Romeo and Juliet scenario, Sad Sherlock, Sex Toys, Sherlock can't save him., True Love's Kiss, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, mystrade, suicide note
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0pposing/pseuds/0pposing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been gone for two years and John hasn't had a successful or happy day since then. The clinic workers have stopped talking to him, giving him dirty looks as he passed by to go to his next patient. When John thinks he's finally had enough and he's on the brim, the person who drove him to depression is there to save him with strong arms and they realize their true feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just letting you all know that I tried to make this as depressing as possible. Don't worry, it gets better. There'll be more than one chapter with lots of angst and fluff and sad sad sad feelings. 3.  
> Oh, and be prepared for Moriarty because I love him.  
> P.S: this isn't edited, nor brit-picked. if anyone wants to be a beta for my stories, let me know in the comments.

The pills gripped firmly in his hand, John Watson took a deep sigh and shuddered, triggering the teardrops stuck on his cheek to fall with such gravity and height, he could hear them plop on the wood below him. The pen was in his other hand, writing approvingly fast for a doctor. It was sloppy, unorganized, but it was readable. Teardrops stained the paper and he took a great big heave before setting the utensil next to the parchment. John sat on the floor, back against the couch, one knee up, another knee laid flat down and below the coffee table he was writing on. He'd been crying for two hours straight, and now it just seemed as if he was taking large gulps of air and then heaving dryly. No tears would come anymore.  
  
He just couldn't do it anymore. His best friend, the entirety of him, threw himself off of a building to save him. But no good came of it, for John was even more depressed now than he had been when he'd departed Afghanistan. The man whom he'd used to run through the streets of London with was now gone, and he wasn't coming back no matter how much effort John put into it. All the tears that were shed, all the afternoons spent sitting in his old room were of no use. And John regretted so much. He'd regretted not admitting his feelings to Sherlock, not confessing how much he thought about him. More than a friend, more than just someone who solved crimes with the doctor. Whenever Sherlock was hurt, he knew he could count on John to be there to patch him up.  
  
So many missed feelings, so many missed chances. All the times they'd stood in alleyways panting and out of breath. All the times they'd be hiding in confined spaces and would have to press up against each other considering there was no room. All these chances had gone by so quickly when Sherlock had basically told John he was a fraud on the rooftop. John knew it was a lie. There's no way someone could be as clever as him and lie about all of what he did for a living. But Sherlock's reasons for jumping off of the roof of St. Bart's had been his own and no matter what John had said to him, he had to jump  
  
So now here John was, pen exchanged for a glass of water and a handful of pills in the other. His fingers trembled and he could barely move them. The weight behind his eyes built up with water throughout the day and now his vision was blurred. The heaves came once more and he bent over, coughing horrifically and taking large breaths so he wouldn't faint before he even did the job.  
  
 _Here it goes_ , he thought. _An ending to all the bloody pain I've been through. Fuck this_. 

* * *

  
Have you heard from John? -SH  
  
No, he stills thinks you're dead as far as I'm concerned. When are you planning to 'surprise' him, brother dear? If it's any interest to you, I don't believe this is a good idea. Too much to take in all at once, hmm? -MH  
  
You're right. It's not any interest to me. -SH  
  
Sherlock Holmes, for once, can you listen to me? -MH  
  
We're texting, I couldn't listen anyways. I have to go see my best friend. -SH  
  
I'm telling you, brother, this is a horrible idea. He's not going to be able to handle it. He'd never found anybody after you. You're his only friend other than Gregory, and I'd assume that doesn't mean too much to him. I understand your want to see him, but I think I should warn him first. -MH  
  
I can handle it, Mycroft. I'm capable of keeping his emotions in captivity. Catch you later, Mikey. -SH  
  
Don't patronize me, _Sherly_. I can do just the same back. -MH

* * *

  
The pills weren't hard to swallow. The only problem John had was getting them into his mouth. The trains were on go and running wildly in his mind, singing songs of yes and no, right and wrong. His head was throbbing and he was laying on the ground, clutching at his stomach and bile stained in the corners of his mouth. Even after he swallowed about 9 pills, he immediately shoved several fingers down his throat, forcing himself to cough them up. Succeeding to get at least 4 out, he knelt down onto the carpet and sobbed once more, wondering when his due date was coming. His throat burned, his fingers had dug so hard into his hand, he made himself bleed and now his face had crimson marks skidded across the cheekbones.   
  
John had also managed to remove all of his clothes in the process, his golden skin caressing the carpeted floor. It was better to go out the way he had come in, naked and free as he used to be. Goosebumps ran up and down his spine as he shuddered on the floor, taking in the coolness of death. It came in waves, sweeping him away like a bottle on a beach. The high and the low tides. His eyelids closed shut, his consciousness faded and the last thing he heard was silence.

"John!" Hands swept him up.  
  
Hands caressed his face. Hands held him softly. Hands were there to save him  
Great, pale hands were touching his skin. Large, bony hands were picking him up.  
  
John's head bobbed back and forth as the man carried him marriage style out the door. The doctor's arm hang limply off the side and he was barely awake, but he couldn't identify his rescuer. After realizing his suicide attempt hadn't worked and they were going to save him, his anger boiled up inside of his stomach and he screamed, thrashing about in the strange man's arms. He kicked and he punched, his fingernails reaching the man's face and finally, after minutes of screaming and throwing a wild tantrum, a needle was stuck into his arm and he wasn't there anymore.

There was no Baker Street. Green curtains, the steady beats of mechanical sounds, the whispering outside the door and the dim light streaming in through the window. This was not home. The beeps became louder and John stirred his head, trying to bring his arms up but he had no strength. No that wasn't it. He looked down and saw his arms were strapped down to the bed and he tried to scream, but no sound came out. Tears began to stream down his face and his whole body shook. Turning his head slightly, John looked at his hands and noticed his nail wounds had been patched up and wound with dressing, presumably by the doctor who had come to see him.   
  
This wasn't what he wanted. John didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Sherlock again, up wherever you went after you died. Wrapped tightly in the detective's arms and laying on soft fur. Their skin bare and combined as one. A mixture of golden brown and porcelain pale wonders. And there it was again. The many thoughts of all the many missed chances. But to no avail, John knew even if he had admitted his feelings to Sherlock, nothing would've stopped him from jumping and landing on the damned sidewalk.  
  
For months, Molly had tried to help him. Force feeding him lunch and trying to get him to come to work more often; get his mind off of it. But nothing worked. John hadn't wanted to come to a hospital but now here he was. Where he most of all didn't want to be. His eyelids fluttered slightly and he opened them, looking around the room to see if anyone was there. There was a man laying on the chair, wrapped in a dark blanket but he had just assumed it was Lestrade waiting for him to wake up. Looking to the other side of the room just in time, a smug Mycroft walked in and set his cane down, pulling up a seat next to John's bed.  
  
"Dr. Watson." said he, as he nodded his head in respect and placed an awfully gentle hand on John's arm. "I see you're awake. I apologize for the inconvenience of the confinement of your hands. You were throwing a fit when we brought you in and we didn't want any..." he paused, thinking of the right word, "accidents." The older Holmes brothers eyes flickered to the ceiling for a second and then back to John, as if contemplating something. "I'm sure you'll be fine to take them off once I leave."

John continued to stare and said nothing, the tears stopping in their tracks as if scared to go any further. Of all the times John had been in the hospital, not once had Mycroft shown up. On a rather gruesome case which involved Sherlock and John chasing down a rather butch hairdresser, she had lodged a pair of scissors right above John's knee, sending him into a whirlpool of pain for a week. Not even then did Mycroft show up. But Sherlock, Sherlock was always there. Sleeping in the room, getting him breakfast and occasionally rubbing a gentle thumb across his forehead and tousling his hair. It was only when John was in pain did the detective show his true feelings. Sentiment did exist there for him. But only for John.  
  
"Why did you save me?" John asked, closing his eyes and sighing. "I was so close.. so.. fucking close to the brim. And you just picked me up and pulled me away." His meager voice turned into something of an over-the-top angry one.  
  
"What on Earth are you talking about? I'm not the one who saved you." Mycroft shot back.

"Then who did?" There was silence, for Mycroft looked down at the ground at his feet and pursed his lips tightly. His eyelids flickered to the other side of the room where the other man lay, and then back to his shoes.

John's head slowly turned and his heart rate increased, feeling as if it could explode or implode any minute. His eyes adjusted to the brighter light over there and the tears resumed their race down his cheek, noticing who the man was on the couch. It was his detective. The one and only consulting detective laying on the couch, a light snore ringing out. Probably the only sleep he'd gotten in days. His coat was draped over him like a small blanket and one leg was lifted on the arm rest, his head laying on the back while his nose was pointed upwards at the ceiling. John wasn't sure if it was possible that he could look so peaceful but at the same time, full of betrayal. Full of.. death, John thought. This man couldn't have possibly existed. He.. he was there! He checked his pulse and screamed for his best friend, but now here he was. Laying on the couch as if nothing had ever happened between the two of them.  
  
John's gaze turned to Mycroft once again, his mouth agape and his eyes red to the brim but only with tears that couldn't fall anymore. He had to say something, he couldn't just sit there. Or, he thought, or this wasn't real. Maybe this was _heaven._ Because Sherlock was here, and he was alive. This is what he wanted, wasn't it? Maybe the pills had worked and all of it was just his way of coping with death. But it felt all too real to him. The pain of his palms and the dull throbbing in his throat and John was vaguely aware of the tubes that were lodged into his nose.   
  
Looking at Mycroft again, he opened his mouth. "How?"

Mycroft said nothing and continued to look down at his feet, shaking his head and emitting a small laugh. "He was going to surprise you tonight. And he found you on the floor, stripped naked and dying." He took a breath and paused. "He thought you'd been attacked but when the doctors did some tests and found it was you who did the attacking to yourself, he was massively disappointed in you." Mycroft paused again. "And himself." he added.  
  
John closed his eyes back and began to sob dramatically, his hands trembling and his voice silent. He wasn't sad. He was relieved, but most of all, he was angry. He was angry at Sherlock for waiting so long to save him. He could've even prevented this from happening if he wasn't such a pretentious douche-bag.  
  
"Get these things off of my hands." John spat out angrily and turned away from Mycroft, looking back towards Sherlock laying on the couch.  
  
"Even if they were off, you're bed ridden. You're not allowed to leave. You can't." He spat back and got up, fetching a nurse quickly and coming back.  
  
The nurse was hesitant in removing the bindings from John, for not an hour ago, he'd managed to kick another male nurse square in the shoulder, dislocating it in the process. Her hands fumbled as she unclasped them, setting them on a table next to the bench. "You know, Mr. Wat-" He cut her off.  
  
"Dr. Watson." John corrected.  
  
"Oh. So sorry, I had no idea." She apologized. "Well, Dr. Watson, we don't get a lot of people in here who fight us when we try to help them. But you're the lucky one, I guess. If it wasn't for that man sleeping over there, you'd be dead." she smiled weakly and her eyes wandered over to the man, who was slowly awakening.  
  
Mycroft jumped up from his seat quickly as he made his way over there, sitting down next to the man on the couch. They whispered to each other for it seemed like hours, but was only minutes on end while John stared, hate building up in the pit of his stomach. Swinging his legs off of the bed and facing both of them, he glared and bit his tongue not to speak. 

They were still in hushed voices when the man stood up and that's when John threw up.

* * *

 John was once again unconscious and sleeping soundly in the hospital bed, the raggedy detective at his side, propped up on his elbows and brows furrowed the entire time. He hadn't intended to come back to this, he had no idea how weak John had become. But now here he was, right next to the man he'd wanted to see so badly, but not like this, never like this. The back of Sherlock's eyes hurt and he could feel himself on the brim of tears but sentiment was incorrigible and false. It wasn't allowed outside of the Mind Palace, or let alone The Work. In all honesty, he was back in London on a case, but nothing would stop him from seeing his blogger after so many years. It was saddening to see John like this, so out of touch with reality he thought the only way to be happy was to go out.  
  
"S-sh.." John began to stir and his jaw clenched along with a crinkle of his forehead. His eyes weren't open yet, but they would be soon.   
  
Sherlock stood up immediately, rushing to the side of the bed and taking John's hand in his his. "Sh, it's okay. You're safe. I'm here. Do you need anything?" he asked, a hint of nervousness struck the vocal chords in his throat.  
  
John's eyes fluttered open and Sherlock right away saw the initial anger boiling deep inside of his pupils. "I need.. need you to-"

"Need me to what, John? Anything." Sherlock pleaded.  
  
John raised a stern hand to silence him. "I need you to shut up and listen." He growled and turned away to avoid looking at him. "Do you.." he licked his lips, "do you have any.. fucking idea what I went through? All those months and years of waiting for you to come back and you never did, Sherlock, you.. never did. I thought this was the only way. I thought, 'he won't come to me so, i'll come to him'. Do you have any bloody idea how fucked up I've been about this whole things. Anderson and Donovan tried to set me up on damn blind dates, the buggers." Sherlock drew a slight chuckle at this as he squeezed John's hand and let him continue on. "None of it worked. I was yours, you were mine. That's it. That was the entire Work we did. Me following you on cases because I was so.. damn in love with you, I couldn't help it. Every deduction you made was perfect, and the way you publicly shamed people was honestly a bit of a turn on if you'll allow me to admit."  
  
Sherlock was silent for awhile, his eyes working and studying over every feature in John's face and trying to recognize any emotions. Finally he spoke, "Did you just tell me you love me?" he asked.  


"Yeah. Yeah, Sherlock, I did. And you know what, I could care less if you love me back, because I know you don't. Your stupid anti-sentiment policy bullshit, I get it." he hung his head and turned away again to look at the hospital window.  
  
Sherlock stared, unable to hide the smirk that appeared on his face. "You're jumping to conclusions. I know, and you know, I'm deeply invested in my work and my 'job' and i can't promise you that any of that will change, but I can promise, or try, that I'll act well. I'll try my best to be a good partner, if you'll have me. And.." he paused, "I'll treat you with as great care as I do my experiments."   
  
"Did.. did you just compare me to one of your experiments in an effort to express your feelings?"  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"Well.. I'm not quite sure how to handle that but, I guess once we get out of this damn hospital, I'll think it over." he smiled slightly and closed his eyes, sighing softly. "Just do me a favor and next time, don't compare to some chemical reactions and dead body parts."  
  
"Oh. Oh, okay." Sherlock replied, letting go of John's hand and getting up. "I'll go see what the doctor says about your conditions on returning home. I'll be back soon." He gave John a quick pat on the hand before turning to leave.  
  
"Sherlock?" John called after him.  
  
Sherlock's head appeared around the corner of the door way. "Hmm?"  
  
"I'll have you."  
  
A blush arose on his face and he smiled, closing his eyes and looking at the floor. "I know you would."

"Oh, get out! Don't be an arse." John smirked and nodded for him to leave. "I'll see you soon."

"You will."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's back at 221b and there's an unlimited amount of tension festering between the two flatmates.  
> Also, Mystrade, if you're into that kind of stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos on the first chapter, guys, it's not a lot but it means a bunch for my self-esteem. :)

There'd always been some sort of tension in the flat, the two were always at work on a case or John was angry at Sherlock for god knows what. But never like this. This sort of tension was the type you could literally taste with your mouth. The type where when you parted your lips, you could feel the musk on your tongue and sour snap that went with it.   
  
John had been back at 221b for quite some time after what Sherlock called his "episode". What they said at the hospital was never spoken of again, although John's heart ached for it. He ached to touch Sherlock and to feel the warmth emitting from him when the detective's hand touched his own at the hospital. John had swore that sparks had coursed through their veins, but he was wrong. Sherlock was back to being.. well, Sherlock.  And frankly, John despised the condition of their relationship. No touching, no speaking (hardly), and whenever Sherlock saw John coming down the hallways, he made it a point to dash to the other side and avoid looking at him altogether. Something wrenched inside of John every time. Something twisted and turned and he hated it, he hated the way Sherlock made him felt.  
  
John would spew out vulgar anomalies at Sherlock at times, for things Sherlock usually did anyways, but it seemed every move the detective made, John despised him.  
  
Now, John didn't _really_ despise Sherlock. He absolutely loved him. Loved the way he made messes in the flat already as if he'd never been gone. Loved the way he'd notice Sherlock was staring and he'd blush. Sherlock would _actually_ blush. Everything he did was different. The air might have been filled with unwanted and unneeded tension, but something else was there. It was lust, it was need, it was everything they both couldn't have at the moment. Everything they were too scared to have.  
  
After John had been released from the hospital, he'd been put under strict watch by Sherlock, and Mycroft of course, who made it his purpose to stop by at least twice a day to check on John. Sherlock abhorred him for doing so, but it was in Mycroft's best interest.  
  
Speaking of Mycroft, Sherlock knew what he'd been up to.  
  
"You've been somewhere. A date?" Sherlock said to him, them both sitting down in the living room, Mycroft sitting in John's chair.  
  
"No. Dates are... _tediously boring_. I've no time for them." Mycroft snarled and took a sip of his tea.  
  
"You're lying," he smirked, "grey hairs on your jacket indicate someone's been nuzzling your neck, someone up in the years, hmm? You've forgotten to button up the last button on your shirt, big mistake, anyone can point that out." Mycroft began to scowl at this.  
  
"I was in a rush this morning."

"Oh, a rush indeed. A rush to escape the bed in which you lay with someone. This someone presumably being someone we know, face it, you don't make friends very often. So it's someone in our circle, I'll call it. Not Mrs. Hudson, that's just.. Not Good. And I've known forever that women aren't in your best interest anyways so it has to be a man. A man up in the years, a man greying but not too gre-" he stopped.  
  
"Sherlock.." Mycroft warned.  
  
"Dear God, you're sleeping with Gavin Lestrade." Sherlock laughed and sipped his tea.  
  
"I have no need for this.. this chastising!" He shouted and stood up, getting his coat to leave, "Oh, and Sherlock, for the last bloody time, his name is Greg.  
  
"You would know. Mycroft, I could care less about how you're sleeping with. Just make sure it doesn't affect the work he gives me." Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took another drink and sighed heavily. "Before you leave.." he paused, almost gagging, "I require your assistance." Sherlock set down his glass on the table next to his chair and stood up, brushing imaginary lint off of his left shoulder. "Let's talk outside."

* * *

"Oh, dear, you _know_ how he is! He's not _purposely_ avoiding you." Mrs. Hudson leaned in, cupping her hand over her mouth towards John's ear. "If anything, well if you want my opinion, I think he's scared of his.. well, _feelings_." She tsked a couple times before turning around and getting a small plate of scones, then swirling back to John and setting them down in front of him. "But who cares for a little old lady's opinion?" She smiled softly before winking and retreating out of the room, leaving John to sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by the masses of science equipment and grotesque body parts.

John knew he'd miss this, there was no doubt about that. He'd miss bitching about the arms and thumbs inside the refrigerator, he'd miss throwing Sherlock's microscope onto the couch in a bout of frustration, he'd miss waking up to the smell of chemicals and burning hair. John would miss all of that.  
  
So that leaves leaving Baker Street out, he'd never do that. In the back of his head he'd always wondered what would've happened if they'd never met; if he'd gotten a boring flatmate. Boring. Dull. _Normal._ John had lived with Sherlock for so long that now he couldn't even imagine life without him. It frightened him and he stood up, stretching his arms above his head.  
  
Sherlock had gone outside with Mycroft awhile ago and John had decided to go check on them. Shuffling towards the door, he yawned and opened the door slightly and stopped halfway. Voices. Mycroft and Sherlock's voices. Peeking out, he took notice of them standing in the middle of the stairway and neither had seen John open the door.  
  
"Sherlock, I understand your worries, but I assure you he'll be fin-"

"No. No he won't, I know him. I know him and his personality and his conscience and he won't be able to deal with this, it's too much. I pity him." Sherlock sighed, "I pity him for being able to feel."  
  
"Do you recall what I said at St. Barts?"

"Yes, you were very clear on that."

Mycroft grinned. "Good. Always remember that when you find yourself.. caring." He bowed his head in farewell to his younger brother and made his way down the rest of the stairs, umbrella in hand opening it once he was outside in the mist.  
  
John shivered and closed the door shut with a quiet click, beginning to back up and wait for Sherlock to come in. Of course there was going to be questioning. There had to have been questioning.  
  
John's heart thudded in his throat as he sat in his seat and stared at Sherlock's. Eventually a tall slender body filled it and no longer was John staring at the seat, he was staring at his best friend. They sat in silence for several minutes, both eyes meeting the others and then quickly darting in an opposite direction. They spoke at the same time.  
  
"So what was that about?"  
"I know you heard what we said."  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked at John, a sad smile forming on his lips. "You first."

John sighed deeply and leaned on his knees with his elbows, his hands fumbling with a string that hung from his pants. "What were uh.. you and Mycroft talking about?" he asked weakly and lifted up his head to stare at Sherlock.  
  
"You."  
  
"Quick to the point, aren't you?" John bit softly and Sherlock raised his eyebrows once again and chuckled quietly.  
  
"Always. We were speaking of you, John."  
  
"About?"

"Your episo-"

John put up his hand to halt Sherlock in mid sentence. "For the last.. bloody.. fucking time, it wasn't an episode. I thought you were dead, Sherlock. I thought you were gone for good and all I wanted was to see you," he paused, his voice quivering, "but no, you were fucking around in God knows where, doing what with whoever. Did you find yourself another doctor, Sherlock? Someone to risk their life for you just like I did? Did you?!" he yelled and stood up, standing directly in front of Sherlock. His chest was puffed out and his fists were curled tightly at his sides, ready to swing when he could."I bet you did." He spat. "I bet you had someone behind my back the whole time who was just waiting for you to make your exit so you could go off with him or her or whatever the hell it is."  
  
Sherlock stared, his eyes cold and full of nothing. Licking his lips twice, he opened his mouth to speak but was stopped when a hand swept across his face with a large and loud smack. It was black for a second but when he opened his eyes, he was on his back, John on top of him and pummeling into his chest with his fists as hard as he could. But he let it happen. The detective let the soldier beat unto him with the fury that was soaring through his veins. And it hurt. Every pummel hurt but he deserved it. He deserved every fistful, every kick, every knee to the groin. After an estimation of 98 punches and 14 kicks to the lower area, Sherlock grabbed John's wrists in his own by surprise and rolled over and was now the one on top. 

"That's enough." he said sternly, his voice breaking. His chest ached and felt like it was bleeding and his groin was on fire in every way possible. Sherlock heaved for a second until he met John's eyes, noticing the brightly lit tears falling down his face.

"How could you do that, Sherlock? How could you just.. leave and not tell me? Do you have any idea what you put me through? I don't think you do. You never even stopped to call or write or give some subtle hint that you weren't dead. You really don't get it. You're so stuck up in your own mind that you never think of anyone else. It's always you, Sherlock, it's always been you. I've dropped everything for you every time. Everyday I've had a date, I've left because you needed me and I knew I had to be there. But I needed you and were you there? No.. no you weren't. And you deserve this. You deserve this pain." John finished and turned his head away from Sherlock's softening gaze.  
  
"John.. I.. I had no idea. My deepest apologies.. forgive me. I didn't think you would care so much. I had assumed you would get on with your life, meet someone special and live a life. I.. didn't know." his voice was on the brink of sorrow but he held it back. "I.. thought it was the best way to keep you safe. I was only thinking of you John. You.. " he licked his lips, ready to relish in sentiment. "You make me right, John Watson." He knelt off of John and sat with his back against the couch, bringing his knees up to his chest and burying his head in the small crevice where his knees touched.   
  
John had sat up to stare at Sherlock, the tears stopping as if afraid to go further. "I'm.. sorry.." he shuddered and crawled next to Sherlock, resting his temple against his shoulder. "I didn't.. mean to hit you so much, I was just so bloody angry at you.." he stopped talking and closed his eyes.  
  
Sherlock was quiet. That was his acceptance of the apology and he rested his cheek on John's furry head.

* * *

"Sorry it took me so long to get here, bunch of file work at the Yard. Hard to get out of that." Lestrade chuckled and hung his coat up on the rack, then turned to face the man sitting on the couch, cuppa tea in hand.  
  
"That's perfectly fine, Greg. Your house isn't too.. "Mycroft paused, searching for the right word. "out of my style." he finished with a tight lipped grin. "My brother himself was a bit occupying at the time so I had just arrived not 10 minutes before you did." He stood up, setting his cup on the small table in front of him and walking towards the detective inspector. "I'm just glad you're home safe." 

He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the older man's head. "Me too. I've been looking forward to seeing you. Anyone ask any questions lately?"

"It seems my brother has it figured out, but he's not interested in any of it. He just needs cases." Mycroft rolled his eyes and returned to his seat. "It's always the cases with him usually, but he's been feeling for John and I'm worried about his mental state. I don't exactly despise John, he's a good man, but I'm not sure he's exactly healthy for Sherlock."

"Mycroft, you know more than anyone that if you're happy," Lestrade poured himself a glass of whiskey, "it's healthy. Maybe not for drugs and stuff like that, but maybe John's his drug. Ya never know. It's like us, yeah? I mean, we're happy. Or at least I am because you bloody well never let me know what you're feeling." He chuckled and sighed, sipping his drink and leaning against the wooden counter. "You two, as much as you dislike, are almost the same. You hate everybody, and I mean everybody. You have no feelings for anything and you try to distance yourselves from people because you're scared they won't like you."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but was shut off by Greg's lips touching his own. Mouths parted and their tongues wove designs around each others moist caves, finding every crack and crevice that could be found. Lestrade backed Mycroft up against a wall, grabbing a fistful of hair and rubbing their now apparent erections against each other and creating illicit moans from the other, sounds that could be heard through the entirety of London. Their hips bucked against each other and Lestrade's hands fumbled around his belt, pushing his pants down to his knees and grabbing his cock in his hand, stroking it softly, twisting at the head.  
  
Mycroft switched places with Lestrade, slamming him against the wall and taking his cock inside his mouth, slithering his tongue around the edges and up over the head; back down to the shaft. The detective inspector's large hands found their place in Mycroft's ginger hair, grasping it firmly and pulling slightly. He slammed his head against the wall and bit his lip to stop an incoming groan. 

"J-Jesus Christ, Mike. Take it slowly. "He stifled a groan again and thrust against Mycroft's mouth.

"Don't call me Mike, that's not my name." He snapped back, pursing his lips around Lestrade's cock. "But, god, you're perfect." he moaned, relishing his tongue in lavishing ways around the base of Lestrade's length. Mycroft's mouth felt like heaven to Lestrade, the way his throat was small and compacted, but like it was built only for this purpose and only for Lestrade. And this thought turned him on even more. This time, instead of subduing the groan in his throat, he let it ring out and he was vaguely away of Mycroft stroking himself below him.  
  
Heat built up in the pit of his belly and his eyes rolled back into his head and he growled, pulling on Mycroft's hair again, tugging his head back and forth, thrusting and thrusting till Lestrade came in thick messy pulses into the back of Mycroft's throat, from which he gladly swallowed. Licking his lips, he stood up, kissing Lestrade's naval and leaning against him, panting softly.  
  
Lestrade's breath came in short thrusts, and then laughter erupted from both of the men. Glances were exchanged before they kissed each other on the lips gently, their mouths curling into tight limp smiles.  
  
"Greg, I can kindly and gladly say that I am very, very fond of you."  
  
Lestrade laughed and pulled up his trousers, but not fastening them. "You can't even say the words, can you? I love you too, you bloody wanker."


End file.
